The Master of Phoenix Hall (25 page)

“So you killed him.”

“I had no choice.”

“I saw his body in the ravine.”

“I'm sorry about that, Angela. I had hoped to spare you any of the ugliness.”

“You killed my aunt, too.”

“I had to do it. She refused to cooperate. She was an old fool. We had a good thing going, and she wanted to spoil it. It was not a painful death. The poison worked like a sleeping tablet and she felt nothing. No one suspected anything.”

“How much did she know?”

“Everything. She is the one who first showed me this passage. It was perfect for my purposes. The cave was a perfect hideout, and I saw how I could work out the whole thing. She thought I was joking at first, but after the first attack when she saw the gold she was ready to help me in any way she could.”

He stood there a few feet from me, his fists resting on his hips. He spoke in a calm, level voice, objectively, as though he was explaining some point in a lesson to his students. I began to back away slowly, and he shook his head warningly, taking another step towards me.

“Why did you do it, Greg?” I asked, my voice beginning to tremble.

“It was a challenge,” he said. “I wanted to get away. I wanted to escape this monotonous existence and live like I was intended to live, and I needed money in order to do that, a lot of money. After the first attack I saw how incredibly simple it was. I decided to get enough to live like I wanted to live for the rest of my life. I saw how stupid they all were, how trusting and vulnerable, and it was a pleasure to make fools of them. No one ever suspected the proper Mr. Ingram. I even helped them chart out new routes that would deceive the highwaymen.”

I could see how pleased he was with himself. I could see how his ego had been fed by his exploits. This man was completely different from the one I had known. He was cold-blooded. He was dangerous. He had no sense of right and wrong. I knew that he could kill me just as easily as he had killed my aunt and that he would feel no remorse for it.

“And then I came to Dower House,” I said.

“Yes, you came. You were an obstacle.”

“So you tried to frighten me away.”

“I did not want you to be hurt. I did not want you to be involved. I wanted to spare you.”

“And now?”

“And now Mr. and Mrs. Andrews will sail for South America. It will be wonderful there, Angela. I'll buy a plantation. We'll live like royalty and never want for anything.”

“I won't go with you, Greg. You must know that.”

“Are you quite certain?” His voice was cold and flat.

I nodded. My throat was dry. I couldn't speak.

“Then I will have to kill you, Angela. That will be a pity. I meant all those things I said.”

He shrugged his shoulders as though this was all very distasteful to him. The hand in the black glove moved slowly down to his belt, the fingers resting on the butt of the revolver. My blood felt icy cold. My wrists were limp and a vein throbbed at my temple. He pulled the revolver out slowly, holding it in the palm of his hand and looking down at it. It was long and black. He spun the cartridge chamber with his thumb. It made a deadly clicking sound.

“I'm sorry about this,” he said, his voice still level. “It seems the only alternative.”

I was standing beside the stack of boxes on which the lamp set. They were piled precariously, and the lamp was perched near the edge of the top box. The flame danced nimbly in the draft of air coming from the passage.

He stopped playing with the revolver. His fingers tightened on the butt, and he pointed the weapon towards me. I could see his eyes through the holes in the black hood. They were calm, undisturbed. I looked down at the long barrel aimed at my breast, and then I kicked the bottom box. The stack tilted violently and the lamp flew to the floor. The light spluttered out in one last explosion of yellow, and the cellar was in total darkness.

“That was a foolish trick,” he said. “I expected more dignity from you, Angela.”

I stood quietly for a moment. I was certain he could hear my heart beating. I began to move cautiously towards the stairs. I knew exactly where they were. I had hastily gained a sense of direction as the last light fluttered out. There was a barrel in the way, and I moved around it, touching the rim lightly with my fingertips. A box of bulbs set in the path. I stepped over it. Greg did not move. I could sense his presence. I could feel his cold anger. My foot touched the slimy surface of the bottom step. I laid my hand on the wall for support. I moved quickly, too quickly. I was halfway up the steps when my feet slid out from under me. I fell, sprawled out over the steps. He laughed quietly, and then I heard the rasping scratch as he struck a match.

He found the lamp. It had not broken. Not all of the oil had spilled out. He set it on the boxes. The first match burned out. He struck another. I saw him bending over the lamp, very carefully lighting the wick. I could not move. I was paralyzed with fear. I watched him with horrified fascination, as those condemned must watch their executioners making final preparations. He stood for a moment, rubbing his gloved hands together as the wick flared and the glow of light began to spread. His back was to me. He was bent over a little, his legs planted wide apart. I saw his broad shoulders covered in black, the folds of the hood hanging loosely from his head. He stood up straight and turned towards me, reaching for the revolver which he had laid aside.

He moved slowly towards the steps. He seemed bored with all this, as though it were merely, a tedious detail that he had to take care of. He came to the foot of the stairs and stood there, looking up at me. I could hear nothing but my own heart pounding. I clasped my lower lip between my teeth and bit down, staring at the man who held the revolver on me. Then I saw that he was looking beyond me, at some point above my head. He raised the revolver. I heard the explosion and saw the silver-blue flash streaking the air. Greg stood for a moment with the gun still raised, and then he fell against the wall, crumpling into a heap as the life went out of him.

Roderick Mellory was standing at the head of the stairs. He did not look at the man he had killed. He looked at me. One eyebrow was raised in a caustic arch, and his lips were pressed tightly together. The revolver in his hand was still smoking.

XIV

T
HE MORNING
was lovely, far too lovely to be endured indoors. I sat in the garden, a book of poetry unopened in my lap. The sky was white, with just a touch of blue, and billowing white clouds moved lazily over its surface. The larkspurs were blooming profusely, the blue petals curving out towards the sun. Billy had edged the bed with crushed white shell, and the pattern of blue and white was serene. Peter curled at my feet, a huge mound of sleek silver fur, breathing contentedly. I wore a dress of white cotton with a tiny pattern of blue and violent, and a violet ribbon held my hair back. The sun touched my eyelids, making me drowsy.

From the house came the cheerful sounds of Nan supervising the men who were cleaning out the cellar. They brought up armloads of rubbish. We would have a huge bonfire later on and I would be glad to see most of the things go up in flames. The secret passage had been sealed off. The constable had found the cache where the rest of the gold had been hidden, and he had found evidence that had helped him locate and arrest the other men who had been involved. It was all over, all the hideous questioning, all the documents to sign and official statements to make. I wondered how I had been able to endure the nervous tension of it all.

I had seen Roderick Mellory only once. He had been in the office while I was answering questions for the men from Scotland Yard, and he had looked bored with the whole affair. When it came his turn to answer questions, he did so in a cold, condescending manner that put the men off considerably. He had not looked at me once, and my cheeks had flushed with embarrassment during the whole ordeal. When it was over he had left without so much as a word to me and extreme irritation had taken the place of embarrassment.

I owed my life to Roderick Mellory. That irritated me, too. I did not want to be obligated to him for anything. Why couldn't it have been someone else standing there at the head of the stairs with a smoking revolver? Nan had told me how she and Billy had become worried when I did not return from town in time for dinner. Nan thought I might have stopped at Phoenix Hall to visit with Laurel for a while, and they had gone there. When Roderick Mellory learned what had happened he began a search immediately. They were in the quarry when I returned, and I had seen their light. When they saw the light come on in Dower House, they had returned. It had taken them quite a while as they had been on the other side of the quarry. I shuddered to think what might have happened had they been a few minutes later.

That had all been over a week ago, and now I merely wanted to try and forget it. It would not be easy, I knew that. This exorcism of the cellar would help. I saw Billy go round the side of the house, his arms laden with old boxes. Nan followed him, an apron tied round her waist, a cap perched precariously on her golden curls. She waved a feather duster and yelled for him to be sure and put the trash in the pile behind the shed. Two other men followed them, one carrying the old dressmaker's dummy. I turned my attention back to the book of poetry, trying to concentrate on the lines.

I had not heard the horse coming up the road. When I looked up Roderick Mellory was dismounting. He wore glossy black boots, tight dove gray pants and a brown suede jacket with brown velvet lapels. There was a fawn colored ascot at his throat, and his raven black hair was disarrayed by the ride, a lustrous tangle that fell about his forehead. He carried a leather riding crop, slapping it against his boot as he walked towards me. He looked grim and determined, his lips pressed down at the corners.

I stood up, meeting his gaze with a haughty stare of my own.

“How is our heroine this morning?” he asked.

I frowned at his use of the dramatic word. “Just fine,” I snapped.

“In fine spirits, at least,” he said.

“What do you want, Mr. Mellory?” I asked. My voice was frigid.

“I am the man who saved your life,” he said lightly. “Do you really think that tone is appropriate, Miss Todd?”

“I suppose I should thank you for that,” I said.

He made a mocking little bow, nodding his head and slapping the crop smartly against the side of his boot. I stood waiting, all my defenses set against the man. He grinned at me, and I could feel the flush coloring my cheeks. That irritated me, and I turned away quickly, hoping that he had not seen. He laughed quietly, still slapping the crop against his boot. I felt humiliated that he had made me blush, that he even had the power to make me blush.

“Have you decided to sell Dower House to me?” he asked.

I faced him, disdainful of flushed cheeks now. “Of course not! You may as well give up, Mr. Mellory. There is no way you can get it. It is mine, and I intend to keep it.”

“There is one way,” he said. There was a lilt in his voice.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“And how is that?” I asked.

“I could marry the mistress of Dower House. Then it would be mine.”

“What an absurd idea, Mr. Mellory.”

“Do you think so?”

“Completely absurd.”

“I think not,” Roderick Mellory said.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1968 by T. E. Huff

Cover design by Julianna Lee

ISBN: 978-1-4976-9825-3

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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